


Like Blood from a Stone

by mywordsflyup



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Curses, Dwarves, F/M, Falling In Love, Forests, Snow White Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/pseuds/mywordsflyup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen grew up with stories about the fearsome Huntsman who wanders through the wild forest and devours the hearts of misbehaving children. She is not quite what he expected. And possibly the only one who can get him out of the woods alive.</p><p>Fairy Tale AU in which Cullen is Snow White, Lavellan is the Huntsman and there are more dwarves than Bioware would ever let us have in one game.</p><p>Inspired by countless hours of headcanons about Cullavellan fairy tale AUs with <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/">Byacolate</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Blood from a Stone

“Ah dear huntsman, leave me my life! I will run away into the wild forest, and never come home again.”  
\- Brothers Grimm, _Snow White_

 

* * *

 

Cullen wakes and there is not a single part of him that doesn’t ache. He is well accustomed to the gnawing pain that settles right behind his eyes and stretches over his temples. The familiar pull of the lyrium in his blood, yearning for more. Always more. But now the old ache pales in favor of the new ones. Every muscle in his body screams, every bone feels cold and weary. His skin, his palms and knees, are littered with cuts and bruises. Mud cakes his front, seeping through his clothes like cold dread. When he pushes himself onto his knees, fir needles stick to his wet hands, itching between his fingers.

The world swims before his eyes for a moment, dark edges creeping into his field of vision. He reaches out, searching for something to hold on to, but there is nothing but the cold forest ground underneath him and the silent trees too far from him to be of any help. The rain has not stopped, so he figures he cannot have been unconscious for long. Under the canopy of leaves, every drop is heavy and deafening, a disorienting medley of patter all around him.

Perhaps it is because of the rain that he doesn’t hear the steps approaching. Not until a twig snaps loudly right in front of him. He looks up, his hand darting to the spot on his hip where his sword used to be, but it is too late. There is an arrow pointed at his face, the tip just inches from his eye.

“Don’t move.”

He couldn’t if he wanted to. Instead he tears his gaze from the arrowhead and along the shaft until he meets the eyes of a stranger. Piercing green and oddly calm as they stare at him from underneath a heavy hood.

“I mean no harm,” he croaks, his voice hoarse from disuse and the cold. “I am simply lost.”

The stranger considers this for a moment, slightly swaying, but never enough for the arrow to lose its potential mark. It’s woman, he thinks. Even the hood cannot fully conceal her features - a sharp aquiline nose and what appears to be scars cutting through her dark skin.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, her tone never changing.

“Not gravely.” He has twisted his ankle two days prior. A sprain, if he isn’t mistaken. And he bruised his ribs when he fell down a shallow ravine.

“But gravely enough to lie on the forest ground?”

There is no amusement in her voice but he almost laughs anyway. Hysteria, perhaps. He has seen it before. “I slipped. And must have hit my head.” He wants to reach up and examine his own forehead but a twitch of the arrow makes him reconsider.

“Are you armed?”

He feels like the order of these questions should be significant somehow but his mind is too muddled to follow this train of thought. He shakes his head instead.

“I will lower my weapon now,” she says. “No sudden movements or I will shoot you.”

He nods and watches her lower her bow. Her body is still tense, ready to make good on her threat at a moment’s notice, but she pulls back her hood to reveal her face. Dark red hair spills over her shoulders and when he spots her large pointed ears he realizes he has been mistaken. What he has taken for scars are actually the lines of the blood writing of the Dalish clans, elegantly curling over her cheeks, chin and forehead.

“You’re an elf.”

“I am.” She steps closer. “I will examine the wound on your forehead now. If you move, I will kill you.”

He does not doubt that she would but when she pulls a piece of cloth from the pack on her back and presses it against a spot just above his left temple, there is something almost gentle about the movement. It hurts, however. A sharp pain shooting through his head that makes him hiss.

“Hold it and keep it in place. Just a little bit of pressure until the bleeding stops.”

He does what she says and she nods, content for the moment.

“Who are you?” he asks, looking up at her.

“They call me the Huntsman,” she says without hesitating.

“The Huntsman is nothing but a myth.” It’s a stupid thing to say. Perhaps his head wound is more severe than he thought.

“And yet, here I am.” She does not sound particularly insulted.

“You don’t look like the Huntsman from the stories.”

She steps back and folds her arms. “What am I supposed to look like?” He thinks he detects a hint of amusement in her voice but her face is impossible to read.

The obvious answer burns on his tongue but he has not forgotten how she pointed that arrow at his face just a moment ago. “Tall. Hairy. Like a bear.” Because that sounds so much better.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Before he can even open his mouth, she has grabbed him by the arm and yanks him to his feet. She is a lot stronger than she looks and the sudden movement makes his head spin. “I also don’t sneak into the villages at night and eat the hearts of little children,” she says.

“I’m sorry.” He’s not sure for what exactly he is apologizing but embarrassment mixes in with the nausea he is pretty sure stems from his fall.

“Don’t be.” She squeezes his arm and he sways slightly before finding his balance. “I’m sure you are not the one who invented the story.”

"My name is Cullen," he says. She has not asked but he thinks it's probably something he should have mentioned before starting to insult her. She only nods and lets go of his arm.

He is much taller than she is. Even slumping with exhaustion he is towering over her but she does not seem intimidated at all. He has no doubt that she could cut him down if she wanted to and every single one of her movements only strengthens this suspicion.

“Thank you,” he says. Because she has not shot him yet. Because she did not leave him in the mud where she found him.

She looks him up and down, her eyes piercing. “You are running from something.”

For a moment, he considers lying. But there seems no point. Not here, at the end of the road. “Yes,” he says and keeps the rest to himself.

She nods, her brow knitted in concentration. “But you are no mage.”

There is just a shadow of anger rising up in his chest, quickly smothered by shame. He hopes his face does not betray him and lowers his head. “I am not. I only seek to reach the other end of the forest. To cross the border.”

“Nobody reaches the end of the forest on their own. You’d be dead within two days.”

It draws all strength from him and for a heartbeat he thinks he is going to fall again. She is right, of course. Nobody reaches the other side. Nobody enters the forest and lives.

She makes a sound, not quite exasperation but close. “The forest has let you come this far. I have no choice but to help you now.”

He looks up, too stunned for words.

“Can you walk?” She seems impatient, at best. Annoyed might be the better word. “And be honest now. There is no point in going part of the way only to be forced to find shelter in the dark because you cannot walk any further.”

“I…” He stops himself and takes a few tentative steps. “How far is it?”

She cocks an eyebrow and doesn’t scowl at him so he thinks he said the right thing. “A two-hour march but it’s not easy terrain.”

Looking towards the thick undergrowth from which he thinks she must have appeared earlier, he weighs his options. His head is pounding and the cold has crept all the way down to his bones, making him stiff and miserable. When he carefully pulls the piece of cloth from his forehead and prods the wound, he finds that it has stopped bleeding. His sprained ankle hurts but can still support his weight. He thinks he can manage two hours of walking. The alternatives are motivation enough. Another night out in the cold wet forest is the last thing he wants. And there is always the possibility that she could change her mind and leave him to his death after all.

So he nods. “I can do it.”

She does not look convinced but turns to lead the way without another word. He scrambles to follow her, almost losing his footing on the very first step. But he does not fall again.

She did not lie when she said the terrain wasn’t easy. There is no path, at least not one that he can see. Just roots and slippery patches of moss. Bushes with thorny branches that tear at his clothes and cut his skin. Treacherous slopes that suddenly appear in front of him, with soggy earth that crumbles away as he tries to slide down. He is cold and all the muscles in his body protest with every step he takes but he does not stop.

The Huntsman does not to have any problems as she walks in front of him, every step sure and steady. He suspects that he is slowing her down, perhaps even more than even she could have foreseen, judging by the irritated looks she gives him now and then.

They are climbing up a steep hill and his feet keep slipping on the thick layer of brown leaves on the ground. His panting is embarrassingly loud in the silence of the forest. He does not think she has even worked up a sweat. Ten years of Templar training and he can hardly make it up a blighted hill?

When they finally reach the top, the Huntsman stops and hands him a waterskin from her pack. He should feel embarrassed by how greedily he grabs it but cannot find the energy to care until he has taken a few big gulps of fresh water. When he hands it back, it’s significantly lighter and he feels heat creeping up his neck.

“It’s not you,” she says as if she could read his mind and takes a sip of water herself. “The forest has that effect on all outsiders.”

It does not make a whole lot of sense to him but he nods anyway.

She does not let him rest for long but he doesn't mind since he does not even dare to sit down in fear that he will not be able to get back up again once he does. Instead he leans against one of the trees for a moment while he catches his breath and surveys their surroundings. The forest is sparser here, mostly tall bright birch trees instead of dark firs, and when they continue on, he finds it a little easier to walk.

“It’s not much further,” the Huntsman suddenly says and relief rushes over him like a wave of warmth. They must have been walking for more than two hours now, surely. The rain clouds above are too dark and thick for him to see the sun but he thinks that is has been getting darker. He picks up the pace and catches up with her, only keeping a little distance between them, just in case.

“You have not told me where you are taking me,” he says.

“You have not asked.”

“Would you tell me if I asked?”

She looks at him, her expression unreadable once more. “Possibly.”

He waits for her to say more but she does not. “Alright,” he says. “So where are you taking me?”

“For now, to my house.” She pauses, but then shakes her head as if she changed her mind. “After that, we will have to see.”

He fears it is the best answer he is going to get and lets himself fall back a bit again. They walk in silence and while it is easier for him to focus on his steps like this, questions burn on his tongue like hot coals. It’s curiosity, he presumes. Perhaps a fair share of mistrust as well.

“Why are you helping me?”

She looks back at him over her shoulder. “You are in my forest and your are in need of aid. If you were a hurt animal, like a deer or a hog, I would do the same.”

Cullen does not know how he feels about being compared to a deer but knows better than to complain. “Surely you don’t take home all of the forest’s wounded animals?” It’s a sad attempt to fill the silence and the look she gives him is cool.

“No,” she says and cocks her head. “I put them out of their misery if I have to.”

He swallows and decides he prefers the silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Keaton Henson's "Beekeeper". 
> 
> You can also follow my [tumblr](http://damnable-rogue.tumblr.com) if you're interested.


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